Rainy Mondays
by Alibi Nonsense
Summary: It isn't Sherlock's fault the new boy had to come and sit next to him! Kid!Sherlock


It was raining and it was a Monday and there was a new boy sitting next to Sherlock Holmes. He had dark brown hair, and big eyes, and freckles on his nose from his summer holiday to Disneyland, and he wore the school uniform like he'd never worn one like it before in his life... which he hadn't.

This new boy had been sitting in the chair since Sherlock had arrived at school. He'd been fiddling with the tie (wonky, but obviously done by a grown-up, because it was far too tight) and fidgeting, and Sherlock had just been about to tell him where the toilets were (there was an old temporary classroom down round the back, which had dried mud-stains all over the floor and smelt off pee, and had a permanent daddy-longlegs hanging in the corner of the end cubicle), when he'd seen the boy's face, which had 'nervousness' written all over it. The text book version. Dr Andrew Char's _Body Language Book_ could hardly have summed it up better and Sherlock was proud of remembering, because he usually forgot.

(Sometimes he accidentally deleted his 'People' folder and came down to breakfast wondering why someone had taken a picture of him, two adults and a random other boy and put it on his bedside table.)

He sat down in his seat. Sandra Holsham and Cathy had already gotten in, and were sitting in the far corner talking about Michael Jackson and Eastenders, and Mr Graham was marking at his desk, but, so far, they were the only other ones in the room, because everyone was late when it rained. So Sherlock had the new boy to himself.

He turned.

"What's your name?" he asked. Mycroft had taught him that in six different languages in the hope that he would learn at least _foreign_ manners, so Sherlock knew it was socially important.

The new boy's face scrunched up a bit and his eyebrows drooped.

"If you cry," said Sherlock, "I won't tell you my name and I won't speak to you ever."

He was exaggerating. He might ask him to lend him a pen sometimes. Or tell him to shut up. He really didn't know why the boy was looking so upset.

The boy's face tensed, trying to become less tearful, whilst all at the same time battling another wave from Sherlock's unintentional rudeness. It was about as successful as a steamroller trying to take a pottery lesson.

The boy dissolved into tears.

Mr Graham raised his head. He frowned at Sherlock (as if Sherlock had done anything!) and started to lower his pen.

Quickly, Sherlock gulped, fishing around in his bag for something to cheer the boy up.

(What would cheer up an idiot? What would cheer up an idiot? _Think_, Sherlock, _think_!)

He grabbed his lunchbox, opening it up on the table in a frenzy of cling-film packages and plastic pots, and threw a piece of his Aunty's fudge at the new boy's head. The new boy stopped.

He blinked.

He picked the fudge off the floor and put it in his mouth, which increased Sherlock's respect for him enormously, considering it had fallen onto some kind of rancid blue-tack bump, and the big eyes widened further.

"Did your mum make this?" he asked, chewing.

"No. My Aunty did," said Sherlock. "She makes it for us for our birthdays and sends it over, and then Mummy confiscates the lot because my brother eats it all on the day and gets tummy-ache. This is Myc's really, but Myc eats mine in _his_ lunchbox, so fair's fair."

The new boy wiped his face.

"My mum does that too," he said, "only I have three younger sisters, which makes it harder, because Daisy's too young to have a lot of sweets. She's two. My name's Pip, by the way. What's yours?"

Sherlock, struck by one of his moments of sheer unparalleled brilliance, decided to be interesting.

"My name's Pirate," he said.

This would have normally put an end to the conversation. Pip, however, was a very gullible sort of boy.

"Really?" he asked, stunned.

"Yes," said Sherlock, wishing he'd said something better-sounding and more believable. "But most people call me Ratty."

Pip blinked. "Why?"

"Because it's shorter than 'Pirate'. Obviously."

"But your book says... um... Sii...er...lloo...kk...Hol...mee...z..."

"Pirate's my actual name," said Sherlock, discretely moving his hand to cover the front of his book. (And why he had to make friends with someone who couldn't even read was beyond him at the moment.) "I wrote that one because that's how it's spelt. My mummy likes funny names. She wanted me to write that, but say it like 'Pirate'. That's why my brother's called Myc."

"Oh," said Pip, blankly. And then, "Do you like Star Wars?"

Sherlock, having forgotten completely everything and anything to do with Star Wars, smiled and waited for Pip to finish talking.

.../...

"Do you know how to dissect a frog?"

"No."

"Well I do. I found one the other day. Myc's been teaching me."

"My daddy's been teaching me about trains. Do you want to know about trains?"

"I already know about trains."

"What, all of it?"

"Yes. I read a book on it."

"Oh. What; everything?"

"Yes."

"Even sander blocks and pop-valve clusters?"

Sherlock blushed and changed the subject.

"Myc's taught me everything about frogs. He got me a scalpel for my birthday."

"What's a scalpel?"

"It cuts things. He taught me where all the ligaments are, and how the eyeballs connect to the brain."

"Eurgh!"

"Yep! And he told me to throw it away, after I'd finished, but I've put it in a shoebox and I'm keeping it under my bed and watching what happens when it decomposes."

"What decommosing?"

"Rotting."

"Eurgh!"

"Do you want to come round and see it?"

"When?"

"Myc picks me up. He has a mobile telephone. You could call your mum and tell her that you're going home with me."

"No. I think it would be better for my mum to talk to your mum and sort it out. I don't want to make my mum cross."

"Ok."

Sometimes Sherlock wished Mr Graham would allow him to bring stuff in for Show-and-Tell.

.../...

The first time Pip met Mycroft was slightly awkward.

It was normally quite difficult to make Mycroft awkward, but Pip managed to do it by accident, which Sherlock found irritating to say the least.

After all, _Sherlock_ never made Mycroft squeal like that when _he_ walked in on him in the bath, and he did it on _purpose_.

Pip refused to have sleepovers after that. Sherlock didn't see why.

.../...

"Do you like peppermint ice-cream?"

"Why?"

"Just eat it."

.

.

"...RATTY! EURGH! YOU PUT RABBIT POO IN MY ICE-CREAM!"

"Only to see if you could tell the difference."

.../...

"What's four hundred add seven million, ten thousand, six hundred and twenty five?"

"Seven million eleven thousand and twenty five."

"Wow."

"It's easy, Pip. It's number bonds to ten."

"Wow."

There was a reason Sherlock kept Pip around.

.../...

"Pip? Why's your hair all weird?"

"My daddy took me to a barbers to get it cut."

"But it's all bristly."

"I wanted it short. Daddy says it makes me look like a man."

"But you look stupid."

"No I _don't_ Ratty! Why are you so mean?!"

"But it's true."

.../...

"Ratty? Why's your hair all weird?"

"Myc took me to the hairdressers to get it cut."

"But its... its all... You said you didn't like bristly hair. Why's yours all bristly?"

"..."

"Ratty?"

"Because I set it on fire! It wasn't meant to be like this! It just went all black and burnt too fast and I had to stick my head in the _toilet_ to put it out because the toilet was _nearest_ and it was _disgusting_!"

"But you look stupid."

"It's all Myc's fault! Nobody told me flour was an explosive!"

"...Ratty. You are very stupid."

"No I'm not."

"You are clever, but you are also very very stupid."

"That's a contradiction in terms!"

.../...

Pip brought a model train for Show and Tell. It was split down the middle so that you could look at all the parts of the engine and see which bits made stuff move. Sherlock tried to look bored all the way through to prove the point he was repeatedly making (over the top of Pip's voice) that he knew so much about trains that he just fell asleep looking at one.

It is hard to look sufficiently bored perched on the front of one's chair holding one's breath, but Sherlock thought he managed pretty well.

.../...

Pip moved away in December. His dad had lost his job again. On that day, Sherlock learnt a new word. 'Alcoholism'. On that day, he also lost a friend. Mycroft bought him a dog, but it wasn't the same.

.../...

_**25 years later**_

It had turned out to be an open-and-shut just like all the others. Suicide: just an improbable suicide. He'd called Sherlock in, just in case, but it hadn't been needed: the 64-year-old Gerald Graham had not even warranted a second glance.

"Suicide. Drank himself to death. Really, Lestrade. You're not five."

He had turned to go.

"Wait... did you say Graham?"

"Oh, go away, Anderson. You're disturbing the crime scene."

"Sherlock; the case has been _solved_."

"Then there's no reason to stay, is there?"

Anderson had given Sherlock a rather dirty look and had turned back to Lestrade.

"Did you?"

"Yeah. I did. Gerald Graham. 64. Retired schooltea-"

There had come two, almost identical silences from opposite corners of the room. One from the door, one from beside Lestrade. Tangible, shocked silence. So much that Lestrade had stopped.

"Wait... what? Am I missing something?"

Lestrade's comment, not for the first time in his life, had gone totally ignored. From the two corners of the room, something had disappeared.

"St John's Primary?"

"Class 3?"

"1990?"

"19th March?"

"The second row along, third from the front?"

"Ratty?"

"Pip?"

Lestrade had felt rather awkward, like he was intruding upon something. Sherlock's face had turned curious. Anderson's had warmed from icy-irritation to surprise. Both were staring at the other in slight disbelief.

And then...

"I walked in on _Mycroft_!?"

Lestrade didn't bother with the paperwork for that one. He let Sally do it. He just wanted to sit down and not think for a while, and maybe have a cigarette.


End file.
